Of a Journalist, a Selkie, and a LoupGarou
by Miss British Teacakes
Summary: Upon the chance meeting of a beautiful werewolf, and the meeting of Remus Lupin, Paul Osche resolves to fight the ministry toothandnail on the common missconceptions and treatment of werewolves


_Thursday_

_July 2, 1996_

When I read the articles the ministry promoted in Witch Weekly, one on the werewolves appalled me. The statement that they were "holding heathen rituals deep in the forest", wore clothes only in the presence of so-called normal society simply because they are "primitive beasts with no moral judgment", and they had "little, if any, animalistic restraint for intercourse" was a grossly mutilated and exaggerated description of events.

And yet, it brought up questions that troubled me for a long time. I spent a great amount of time thinking about it, and I would walk along the shore near my home in the North of Ireland.

It was during one of these wanderings that I came across a young woman sitting on a rock not far out to sea. There was a beauty about her that I had never seen before, nor will I ever see again, I'm sure. It was unearthly, with thick black hair, and sparkling eyes, and skin that was as pale as the moon. She wore not a stitch, and I could not find any set of clothes nearby. I wondered if she was a selkie, and I came across an inexplicable desire—despite my being engaged—to steal her skin, so she could not run off and would marry me.

She soon noticed me, and slipped into the water, coming up the shore toward me. The utter confidence that she moved, and the comfort in her nudity enchanted me, and it took away any shame I had in finding her in such a state.

Before I could ask why she wore nothing, she asked me in a curious tone, "Excuse me for any rudeness, but I was wondering why humans have such an obsession over covering their bodies."

I was astonished, and it took my several moments for me to answer. Finally, I replied, "We do it out of humility."

She appeared confused for a moment, before asking quite politely, "What are you humiliated about?"

This I couldn't answer. What could one answer to such a question? I finally stumbled over an answer, that there was often some part of a person's body that we didn't want others to know about, and to stop any judgment or embarrassment, we _all_ wore clothes.

She seemed to accept this answer. However, she soon came up with a different question: Why am I hiding myself all the way out here, with nobody around to judge?

Once again, I could not answer. Indeed, it was far from the town. The only answer I could _give_ was a pathetic excuse, that if anybody _did_ happen by, I would already be dressed, or if I happened upon the town, and that it was too much hassle to get dressed and undressed.

She gave a sigh. It was then that I realized that we were walking along the shore. She was spewing out questions at an incredible pace; why should one be ashamed what they looked like? Why did people judge _other_ people so on their appearance, when what they _should_ be worried about was their personality?

I answered her questions as best I could, trying not to embarrass myself. The more she asked, the more I began to stumble, and the more I began to stumble the more I began to question myself. She seemed to realize this, and soon we found ourselves getting into deeper discussions.

I soon found that she was not, indeed, a selkie, but a werewolf, and one of considerable age. She was far wiser than anybody I had ever met, and explained things with great detail and reason. Upon mention of certain aspects of articles in Witch Weekly, her eyes darkened. When I asked about the great amount of sexual intercourse that it was known they did, she replied:

"Why not? We cannot spread pregnancy in our human forms, nor can we attain disease. For us, it is simply an act showing acceptance or warm friendships. Besides, as I understand it, there are many _humans_ that will share a bed with a new partner nearly every night, _with_ all the risks it can create."

The ceremonies in the forests that were mentioned were tributes to their goddess, held so far out so as not to be disturbed by humans. I also learned that an astonishing percentage of werewolves did _not_, in fact, believe in the Goddess—in fact, they raised eyebrows at such rituals.

All too soon, we reached a forest, and she took her leave of me. I asked her if I could see her again, and she answered simply, "We'll see."

When I returned home, to my small house, I found I felt a distance between myself an my girlfriend, and I hardly spoke a word to her all evening. When she asked how my day was, what I had done, I gave a shrug and a mumbled answer.

And all the while, I was ashamed for feeling that way toward her.

The next day, upon a rare visit to London, I heard a name that woman had mentioned during our discussions. His appearance astonished me, almost as much as the sight of my new acquaintance had. He looked normal at first, if not a little poor; his hair was a light shade of brown, and he wore a robe that had been mended so many times that it was obvious how old it was, despite the skill that was used in hiding the tears. And yet when I approached him, he looked at me with olive eyes that held the same sort of other-worldly power that _she_ (what I shall now refer to her as, so as not to give her too much unwanted attention) had regarded me with.

When I mentioned _her_ name, he confessed he had never met her. But he seemed unsurprised that she knew his name. He told me that he was surprised to learn how well known he was in the werewolf society. And so when I mentioned that I was thinking of sending this into a magazine to counter the dreadful report in Witch Weekly, he told me that he would not be upset to see his name, as it was often used in regards to his kind, anyway.

He told me his name was Remus Lupin, and looked slightly embarrassed _himself_ when I mentioned the references of his name to myself. Remus told me that he had not, in fact, been born a werewolf, but with a name like his, it was no surprise what he was fated to become. He also confirmed what I thought a humorous comment—he said that, contrary to my sarcastic joke about it, he was, in fact a Cancer. He said this with a wry smile.

And as we got into a discussion while sitting outside Fortescue's, I grew to like him more and more. He was extremely polite, but with a wonderfully dry sense of humor and a sharp mind. To my surprise, he was incredibly young for a werewolf, the same age as myself, only thirty-six, and he told me that usually a werewolf is around two hundred when they even _begin_ to get any recognition—the reason that he was so surprised that he was so well-known. I found that he was also born in Ireland, but near Limerick, in the south. Although his family wasn't Catholic or Protestant—something that irked the population of the town where he was from—he was well versed in Christianity, due to the fact that he was constantly being preached to while living there.

Finally, my curiosity got the better of me, and I asked what he was so well known for. He responded, "I was given the name Kampölver. In our language it means 'He-who-loves-humans', or quite literally into 'man-lover'."

This confused me slightly. I didn't understand what was so wrong or unusual about loving humans? And, to a lesser degree, why they had decided to give him a name other than what he originally had. When I asked, he explained that, just as werewolves were looked down on by humans, werewolves looked down on humans as short-lived and ignorant, but as vital to survival of the world, as all things in the world are. To my other question, he explained simply that a lot of names didn't translate into their own language, most of all Latin-based names like his.

It was nearing dark by this time, and it was then that he took his leave. It was the full moon that night, and he was late getting home. He hurriedly gathered the few items he had bought, and disapparated. This was not before telling me that it was a pleasure talking to me, and would love to speak again, should the occasion permit.

To my disappointment, I have not seen Remus or _her_ since. My fiancé and I broke off the engagement, after we fought over what she called my "wanderings" and the acquaintances I have made. In the meantime, she had met "somebody else". We also have not spoken since, for different reasons than that of what I hopefully may call friends. Upon the submission of this article I hope I may change some of your opinions, and I sincerely wish that I may be encouraged to continue my stories, should I be lucky enough to have the chance.

_-Paul Osche

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**Notes: In Irish folklore, selkies are seals that can take off their skin to become beautiful women, with dark hair and eyes. It's said that if a man steals their skin, they are bound to the land until they find their skins, and often end up marrying the man that steals it's skin.**

**Also, the pronunciation of the name Kampölver: The "****ö" is like "oo" in "book", with a little more "eh", and the "v" is like an "f".  
**


End file.
